#also my flats gave me a blister again cause i tried speed walking in the them oops

[drearyd0ll]

had such a shit day yesterday i'm still recovering

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Memory

Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~1700

Warnings: Language, Sam in skinny jeans. 

A/N: For @idreamofhazel‘s Throwback Challenge! Thank you for letting me join in on the fun, and for the extra time! This was fun as fuck to write. I totally have a headcanon that Sam was a closet emo kid, and used to listen to MCR and shit behind Dean and his dad’s back. This is also based on that time I snuck out of boarding school to see the Academy Is...

My prompt was Memory, by Sugarcult. 

“I’m going out,” Sam says, and he throws his backpack over one shoulder, trying to look like he gives exactly zero fucks. Dean’s giving him laser-eyes, so it’s probably not working.

“Where?”

“Out. To a show. With a girl.” He can’t help but smile a little bit on the last word.

“What girl?”

“Y/N. Just a girl.”

She is, emphatically, not just a girl, but Dean doesn’t have to know that. In fact it’s much better if Dean doesn’t know that, because if Dean figures out exactly how many butterflies are crashing around in Sam’s ribcage, he’ll have to endure a lecture about getting attached and how stupid it is when they’ll be moving on in a week or two anyway. And Sam knows all that. He does. But he’s seventeen, and he has a crush, and he doesn’t want to fucking hear it.

They’ve been dancing around each other for a few weeks now, since Sam accidentally tripped her in the hallway (thanks, gigantic clumsy teenage feet) and then immediately caught her before she could fall (thanks, ninja-like hunter reflexes) and then she grinned up at him with these sparkling eyes all smudgy with black eyeliner. God, she’s cute.

He realizes he’s smiling as he thinks about it, and Dean is looking at him suspiciously. He waves and turns to go before Dean can call him on it.

“Do you need a ride?” Dean asks.

“Nah, she’s picking me up at the diner down the street,” Sam says. It’s partly because he doesn’t want her to know that he’s staying in a seedy-ass motel, but also because he needs to change his clothes where Dean can’t see and make fun of him.

Because Sam maybe bought skinny jeans the other day. And he’s totally comfortable in his masculinity and all that, and he knows he looks good in them (the salesgirl said so, and then she gave him her number, so she definitely meant it) but he also knows exactly what Dean would say. And if Dean knew he was going out to a pop-punk show? Holy shit. It would be bad.

“Well, I’m going out with Amber,” Dean smirks. “So make sure you have your key, cause I might not be back til really late.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Bye, Dean. Have fun.” He holds back the “Love you.” It’s been a while since he could say it casually like that, but sometimes it still jumps unbidden to the tip of his tongue.

He walks down the block quickly, dodging a hooker and a dealer, and gratefully opening the door of the all-night diner that’s become his favorite place in town. He’s been coming in every day to do his homework at the counter with a strawberry milkshake.

“Hey, sweetie,” says the motherly woman behind the counter. “The usual?”

“Just a coffee?” Sam asks. “Thanks, Maggie. Be right back.” He heads to the bathroom to change, shimmying into the black skinny jeans.

She raises her eyebrows when he comes back out, but doesn’t comment, and he’s grateful. He gulps his coffee nervously.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Hey, Sam!” he hears, and almost falls off the stool as he spins around.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly, and jumps up to give her a hug. She keeps her arms around him just a second too long, and he loves it. Her hair smells like strawberries.

She leads him out to where her best friend’s car is idling by the sidewalk. The front passenger seat is also occupied by a girl with purple hair that he vaguely recognizes, which means the two of them get to slide into the backseat.

He doesn’t know most of the songs that play too loudly on the CD player as they drive to the venue, but it doesn’t matter. She sings along to every one. Her voice isn’t great, it cracks noticeably when she’s trying to sing that one Fall Out Boy song, but he watches the easy confident grin on her face, the line of her neck when she tilts her head back to really belt it out, and his face hurts from smiling.

They put on the CD of the band they’re going to see, Sugarcult, and he maybe got the CD at the mall and listened to it in secret for a while, just so he wouldn’t look like an idiot at the show, and so he knows the words to this one. Her eyes light up when he joins in on the chorus, and that makes the last of the self-consciousness evaporate. He drums on his knees, getting into it, and when the song ends they skip back to the beginning and listen to it again, and he rolls down the window and screams the words out at passing cars.

There’s this warm liquid glow in his stomach, fluttering and perfect. It’s her, partly. Those fucking butterflies are multiplying by the minute. But it’s something bigger, something to do with the reckless speed of the car and the blistering volume of the stereo, something about how goddamn normal it is. He feels carefree in this ecstatic, invincible way that he never wants to end.

He reaches out and takes her hand before he can talk himself out of it. She beams at him in the intermittent yellow light of the streetlights, and her fingers are soft and perfect between his.

When they get to the venue, this tiny shitty club, there’s a line out the door of boys and girls with tight jeans and studded belts and flat ironed hair, and they wait impatiently and then get in, with big black X’s in Sharpie across their hands. Y/N makes a face at him, showing off those X’s and rolling her eyes, and he takes it as an opening to grab her hand and hold it again. She smiles that sweet, secret smile, looking up at him through her lashes.

He’s fought demons, for fuck’s sake. He knows how to shoot and how to use a knife and how to get rid of a fucking ghost. But the lights go up and the first chord vibrates through his chest and the crowd surges forward, and the adrenaline rush of it is like nothing else. The entire room screams as one, and he can feel the scream ripping through his throat but he can’t hear it, can’t hear himself in the chorus of voices, and then the drums are snapping out a beat and the singer is leaning out over the sea of upturned faces, and Sam gets lost in it.

He dances, sort of. He jumps up and down, at least. The crush of bodies around him means that he only has so much freedom of motion, but it also means that he has an excuse to be pressed up against Y/N the entire time. They dance, and they shout along, and sometimes they hold hands, fingers clasped tight, and she’s so fucking beautiful when she dances, sweat shining on her cheeks, purple and green and gold in the lights, and sometimes she closes her eyes and smiles blissfully as she sings, and Sam is so, so, so fucked. But he also hasn’t been this happy in a long time.

His favorite song starts, the single, and they’re jumping up and down in sync and shouting the words at each other with big, goofy grins, and when he kisses her, everything seems to freeze. It’s a good kiss. It’s such a fucking good kiss. Everyone around them is going nuts, dancing and moshing and jostling against them, and they’re so still, locked together in the middle of the chaos, and Sam forgets about everything except her and her soft lips and her strawberry-scented hair running through his fingers as he holds her.

They have to leave before the last song, because her friend has to get home before curfew. They hold hands as they run through the parking lot and they’re still holding hands when they collapse breathless and giggling in the backseat.

Her friends in the front seat turn up the stereo and sing along again, but they sit quietly. He runs his thumb over her knuckles. His chest is swelling as he looks from their clasped hands to her beautifully flushed skin and messy hair.

He knows it’s stupid to get attached. He knows they’ll be moving on in a few weeks. But it feels so good to let himself fall, to let himself have this one stupid night of being a stupid careless teenager with a crush.

He kisses her again before he gets out of the car, a quick peck on the corner of her mouth. “See you Monday,” he whispers.

He changes in the bathroom of the diner, and because he’s sure he can’t go to sleep yet, he slurps down a strawberry milkshake and tells Maggie about his date.

When he gets back to the motel, the room is dark and empty. He doesn’t bother showering before he gets in bed. It’s sorta gross, the way his skin is getting sticky, but he doesn’t want to wash the night off yet. He wants to hold onto it as long as he can. He dozes off with drumbeats echoing in his skull and the memory of her smile glowing behind his eyelids.

“Wakey wakey, Sammy,” he hears when he starts to stir. “Time to get packed.”

“What?” he says dazedly. Dean is tossing his backpack onto the bed.

“Time to go,” Dad’s saying. “Hunt wrapped up sooner than I thought. It was a djinn.”

They pack. They get in the car. Sam knows it’s pointless to protest, and he manages to hold back the tears.

He pulls out his Walkman, once they’re on the highway, and turns up the song loud enough to drown out the Ted Nugent cassette that Dean’s been obsessed with lately. He closes his eyes, and tries to relive the high of it, the way her lip pillowed between his, the press of her palms against his back.

This could never start

We could fall apart

And I’d be your memory.

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